


Bitterness and Smoke

by kiitos



Category: 17th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiitos/pseuds/kiitos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is not perfect, he's made mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitterness and Smoke

“I don’t love you.” He’d said. And just like that, anything young and playful within the nineteen year old Earl gave up its tenuous hold on existence and quietly died.

It had been easy for Charles to make the man (barely a man, practically a boy) his Gentleman of the Bedchamber, and even easier to coax him into the royal bed. He was eager, enthusiastic and energetic; exactly what Charles wanted, plus his mouth was cheeky as well as talented, a great change from political or simply dull chit-chat.

But he was only ever a plaything and when he started to get too attached, smiled a little too softly when he showed up, his touches lingering a little too long, Charles had to put a stop to it. He just wasn’t sure how, and then one night, when Rochester was tracing patterns in Charles’ sweat dampened chest hair, Charles just said it.

“I don’t love you.”

Charles had never seen the fire go out of anyone’s eyes before, had never seen the spark dim and fizzle into a grey pile of bitter and acrid ash. Rochester twitched away from him like being near him was suddenly physically painful, and the tears clouded dull brown eyes wrenched something in Charles’ heart completely out of shape.

“John…” He began

But Rochester was dressed and gone with a speed that would have impressed Charles’ younger self into smirking and a round of trying to top that speed. Older Charles just swore and threw a pillow at a priceless vase.

The next morning Charles allowed himself to hope, but it was dashed rather suddenly when Rochester didn’t show up, and the same the next morning, and the next, until Charles stopped hoping. Catherine didn’t say anything, there was nothing to say, but it was difficult watching two self-destructions.

Rochester drank and shagged and drank some more. Fought and quarrelled and drank and shagged and  _deteriorated_. Then the poems started, hateful, sneering works of “art” dragging Charles down and slandering his and every other name he held dear. Banishment after banishment and still Rochester wrote about him, culminating in a play so offensive that some called for an execution. Charles was nothing if not merciful (and endlessly worried that this man that was once his friend was careering towards the early grave he had once hoped to steer him away from.) So he had Rochester dragged before him to explain himself.

“John…” He began in earnest, desperate to help, but Rochester had a much quicker tongue than his nineteen year old self, sharper too.

The Earl hissed, all smoke and bitterness. “This god-forsaken ‘Restoration’ that you have seen fit to thrust into our laps sets my teeth on edge and my stomach turning.” He paused, apparently considering his next words. “You deserve everything I have written about you.” It’s tinged with a faint regret but Charles was damned if he was going to bring that up.

So Charles just stared at him, a million responses formed in his mind but his tongue unable to convey a single one of them. “You hate me?” He tried instead but Rochester just laughed viciously.

“Nothing so simple, I do not hate you. I just don’t love you.”

And somehow, that was so much worse.


End file.
